woods, and within ten running strides the steeds splashed into the chill rush of the ford, their forward pace slowed by the deepening water, the current hock high on the coursers.
And from somewhere behind there sounded a distant bugle blat, a Ruptish horn blowing -Tip gasped and his hands involuntarily clenched, and he nearly lost his grip on the arrow nocked to his bow string. But then relief swept over him. They are behind us! We 've beaten them to the -the blat to be answered by a loud horn blare ahead.
And still the horses lunged through the shallows, while on the opposite bank dark forms rose up among the en-shadowed trees on each side of the road.
'Down!' cried Phais, leaning low against the neck of her steed and spurring the horse forward as black- shafted arrows whined through the air.
And from the back of the following packhorses, Tipper-ton took aim at one of the figures and let fly, reaching down for another arrow even as the one just loosed hissed over the water and into the Somewhere someone screamed, yet not from vicinity where Tip had aimed, but he heard Beau cry out in Twyll: 'Blut vor blut!'
And once again Tip aimed, loosing just as an arrow sissed past his ear; yet whether or not his own shaft sped true he knew not, for he was busy nocking another arrow to string, even as someone among the foe shrieked in agony.
Out from the water and up the far bank now plunged the horses, and howling dark forms rushed into the road ahead. Rucks and such, Tip could now see, and he aimed and loosed again.
'Deyj lit a Rupt!' cried Loric, raising his sword on high as his steed with Beau after thundered toward the Foul Folk barring the way.
Over the thin line of Spaunen they hammered, first Loric, then Phais, with Beau and Tip coming after, Rucks scattering aside or shrieking in death as hooves smashed them down and under, with Hloks swinging tulwars at the four, Loric and Phais answering with Elven steel as they flashed past and away, black-shafted arrows sissing after.
Yet within twenty running strides, of a sudden, Beau's horse collapsed, pitching to the roadway, hurling Beau tumbling ahead and snapping the long tether tied to Loric's rear saddle cantle.
'Beau!' cried Tip as he galloped past. Then, 'Phais! Loric!'
Behind, Foul Folk howled and rushed toward the fallen steed as Beau floundered to his feet, disoriented.
Loric wrenched on his reins, the steed squealing in pain as it jolted to a skidding halt and turned and leaped forward, running toward the downed buccan and the oncoming Spaunen beyond.
Now Phais turned her own mount, Tip's horse running to a halt behind. Then she, too, spurred toward the felled Waerling.
Beau looked wildly 'round, then laded his sling and let fly, the missile crashing through the skull of the lead Hlok, though he was yet a hundred feet away, and the Spawn pitched backward, dead ere hitting the ground.
Black-shafted arrows flew in response, sissing through the air.
'Sir Beau!' cried Loric, thundering toward the buccan. Beau looked back, then ran to the felled horse and with his dagger he cut something loose from the cargo.
Tip let fly with another arrow, and this one he saw strike one of the Rucken archers in the neck, the dark creature to gasp and gargle and clutch his throat as he fell.
More arrows flew, and Loric grunted in pain, yet he leaned down low in his saddle and held out an arm. And amid flying arrows Beau stood upright, his rescued medical satchel in his left hand, his right hand held high, Loric to catch him by the wrist, jerking him up and away from the road and across the horse's withers, shafts hissing all 'round.
Now Loric turned his steed, and Phais, still approaching, slowed and turned as well, while Tip loosed another shaft at the Spaunen coming on still.
Yet now the steeds raced away, and within a furlong left the Foul Folk behind, while in the distance beyond the ford they had just crossed a Ruptish bugle blatted.
Chapter 22
As Beau wound bandages 'round Loric's rib cage, the buccan said, 'Another handbreadth to the left, my foolish Lord Loric, and we'd be setting fire to your funeral bier… although I must say I am grateful you saved me. Even so, your action put our mission in jeopardy. I mean, Tip is the one carrying the coin, not me, and he's the one you've got to get to King Agron. And to do that you shouldn't be taking such risks.'
In the flickering light of the small sheltered fire, Loric glanced at Phais. She smiled and said, 'List not to his chiding, chier, for I would not have thee abandon our companions. E'en so, I also do not desire thy Death Rede.'
'Death Rede?' asked Beau as he took up a knife and cut a split in the cloth preparatory to binding it off. 'Sounds ominous.'
Loric looked up at Phais and, at her nod, said, ' 'Tis a… gift given to Elven folk, by Adon or Elwydd, we think: a gift of… leave-taking.'
Beau tied a knot, then frowned at Loric. 'I don't understand. I mean, the only rede I know of is the one Lady Rael said. Goodness, hers is not a Death Rede, is it?'
Loric sighed. 'Nay, hers is a rede of advice, of counsel, whereas a Death Rede is like unto a final message-a sending of feelings, visions, words, more-imparted to a loved one, no matter the distance, no matter the Plane, when death o'ertakes one of Elvenkind.'
'Oh, my,' said Beau, his eyes flying wide. 'Sounds more like a curse than a gift.'
'Nay, my friend, 'tis no curse,' said Loric, 'but a final touching of souls.'
Blinking back sudden tears, Phais drew in a tremulous breath and turned and walked toward the edge of the woods.
Shaking his head, Beau tied a final knot and stepped back. 'There. All done. We'll look at it again in a day or two. Now drink that gwynthyme tea, for we know not if the arrow was poisoned, Rucks being such as they are.'
Loric did not respond, but instead looked toward retreating Phais.
Beau waved a hand in front of Loric's eyes. 'Did you hear me, Lord Loric?'
Loric frowned and looked at the Waerling and shook his head. 'Nay, Sir Beau. My thoughts were elsewhere.'
'I said, drink that gwynthyme tea, for we know not if the arrow was poisoned, Rucks being such as they are.'
Loric nodded and took up the cup of still warm tea and sipped slowly.
As Beau washed and dried his hands, he added, 'My Aunt Rose always said that Rucks and such are born without any heart, and that's why they are so sneaky and underhanded and cruel and wicked and… and well, she had a thousand names to call them, none of them good.'
'Thine Aunt Rose was a wise Waerling, Sir Beau,' said Loric. 'The Foul Folk are born without compassion or conscience. Gyphon deliberately made them that way.'
'But why would he make them such? Such uncaring things, I mean.'
'It was a testament to his own nature: that the strong should take from the weak, the powerful from the vulnerable, the wicked from the innocent.'
'Oh, my, how appalling.' Beau put away needle and gut and bandage cloth and medicks and then buckled his medical bag shut. 'By the bye, speaking of the Foul Folk, d'y' think they'll come at us this night?'
Loric shrugged, then winced from the pain of it. 'Nay. The band we saw marching has traveled far and likely will not come after. And the ones we rode past at the ford are yet licking their wounds. They will think twice ere coming after, for mayhap as many as a dozen of their own lie dead in our wake-'
'A dozen!' Beau's eyes flew wide.
'Aye, or so I do believe: some by thy sling, some by Sir Tipperton's bow, some under the hooves of the horses, and two or three felled by Elven blade.'
'Oh, my,' said Beau, looking at his hands as if expecting to see them dripping with blood.
With the crescent moon just setting, Phais made her way to where Tipperton, on watch, sat on a fallen
